


Quiet Mornings & Other Fantasies

by BrokenHeadphones



Category: AFK Arena (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, nam flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:49:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHeadphones/pseuds/BrokenHeadphones
Summary: Drabbles within the world of AFK Arena





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fawkes is cold and Mirael helps.

He still thought of it, on bad days.

_Raine paused, and Fawkes used the opportunity to catch up with her, glancing for what had captured her fancy. A cavern, something that they had somehow never come across in their explorations prior._

When his arm ached and the voice whispered in the back of his mind, incessant, when urges to tear and claw and _kill_ had him squeezing his fists till his nails drew blood just to keep himself from hurting Ra—hurting anyone.

_There was a cautious twinkle in her eyes, the desire to explore mixed with the knowledge that dark caverns could hold any number of unfavourable surprises. She glanced between the cavern and Fawkes, before grinning, holding back any unease, “You scared?”_

Fawkes took a breath, his hands clawing at the rough bedroll beneath him. He thought he clawed at the sheets, at least. His left arm was tingling, his left hand completely numb.

 _“Of course not,” Fawkes responded, in the indignant way any child would when their bravery was questioned. He paused, “What about_ you _, Raine?”_

He opened his eyes to glance down at his arm, at the unearthly blue that devoured his hand, at the way his fingers weakly twitched as if trying and failing to respond to his attempts to clench his fists.

_She responded the same, and the two of them paused. Neither would turn away and admit to cowardice. Neither would make the first step to the unwelcoming dark. A twig snapped behind them, and the two of them tensed. As if in unison, the two glanced at each other, laughed at each other’s jumpiness—it was probably just a deer or another traveller._

He could feel the cold, forceful embrace of magic—

_They stepped forward together, and it was in this way that they entered the cavern. There was a flickering light, likely a fire or a lantern further in. Not a wild animal, then. They entered the main body of the cavern…and immediately froze._

_Raine’s gaze travelled over the knives, Fawkes’s over the symbols on the floor. Neither needed knowledge of magic to recognise blood and malintent. Something dark was going on._

He tried to distract his thoughts, to focus instead on the light noises beyond his tent. The gentle birdsong, the small clatter of Mirael fixing breakfast. It was his turn, next, he tried to focus on the routine and Mirael and Raine—Raine tensing, Raine hurt—

_Raine and he tensed when a voice spoke behind them._

_“Well, well, well, what_ have _we here?_ ”

_The voice sent a shiver down Fawkes’s back, and the pair slowly looked behind them to see him. The necromancer._

The one who cursed them and hurt them, but yes, they had been saved, hadn’t they?

_Hadn’t they?_

_All he felt was terror. Genuine terror. Not the momentary jump that came from an unexpected noise. Not the small fear for punishment he felt when he forgot to do his chores or when he and Raine got caught fighting._

_Magic wrapped around their limbs, before they could even try to run, and forced them like unwilling puppets. The altar was cool stone that chilled through his clothes, or maybe that chill was from the necromancer and the cavern and this had all been a mistake—_

_Raine whimpered, Raine, who hadn’t even cried (much) when she near cut her finger off when carving into a tree. The sound brought Fawkes back to the moment, trying to think not of the cold stone and the way the man moved about the small space, preparing for something, grabbing one of his knives. There had to be a way out. But their restraints weren’t physical, and Fawkes could hardly move under the restraints._

_And then the man turned, and faced them, and_ smiled _. Raine growled at him, all false bravado as she struggled. Fighting till the bitter end, that was Raine, indeed._

_The necromancer wasn’t fazed even slightly. He simply approached the sigils on the ground, and his face only fell to return to a neutral state. He opened a book to a bookmarked page, and, with a gleeful glance up at the captured pair, started to read._

_Nothing happened, at first, and Raine and Fawkes glanced at each other. Was it…not working? The man didn’t pause, though, and Fawkes found out rather quickly that no, it was working. It was a subtle feeling, at first, something like death wrapping gently around his innards before it would inevitably grab and tug and tear. He whimpered at first, hearing a panicked Raine, “Fawkes?”_

_The man continued to chant, that was all he could focus on, the nonsensical words, the feeling tightening in his core. He could feel his body tensing and arching in response to the cold and the growing pain and he heard another voice then, something more sadistically pleased than even the necromancer._

What a lovely little sacrifice, he was, such a young, naïve little thing. He would do _quite_ nicely.

 _There was a sudden burst of pain then, and Fawkes heard himself scream, and it felt like something had torn into his body and was, was entertaining itself tearing his heart into pieces—and then everything stopped. The cold settled. He could feel his body, his throat, raw, his fingers, he was_ back _, and he could hear chaos. Raine was beside him, grabbing him, pulling, “Fawkes! Fawkes, c’mon, we need to get out!”_

_He could only nod. He was dazed, could barely think of anything besides the fact that he had been about to…die? Cease to exist? Was there a difference? Why was that again?_

_“The necromancer,” he muttered, half to himself, and Raine sent him a look, “Yeah, we need to get out. Fawkes,_ please—”

He felt something shaking his shoulders, but that didn’t make sense, Raine was in front of him, her hands between the two of them, and the warriors who had saved them were not by the altars.

“Fawkes, please,” a voice repeated. No, this wasn’t Raine. This was older. This was silkier than Raine’s brash tones. He was cold and numb and cold again and there was a hand against his—

A warmth forced its way into his bones, he could feel his arms and hands and fingers again.

“You there?” 

Beside him, a familiar redhead sat, her hair still up in a braid like it always was when she slept.

“Mira,” he spoke, his voice raspy. She smiled, “There we go, Fawkes.”

He sat up, then, and Mirael shifted to sit beside him on the ground. He sank his head against her shoulder. She might try to make him talk about it later, or she might not—it was hard to tell with her, when she valued communication as necessary or optional. But for now, she let him settle against her, channelling her natural warmth into him. Raine would eventually come in to investigate and make some joke about them cheating on her before joining the pile, but even that disturbance would be a welcome one.


	2. Quiet Purrs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Numisu accidentally plays matchmaker for the Mauler chieftain and a certain troublemaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put names into a random name picker and now I guess I ship Vurk and Brutus oops. Also among the gems: Ulmus/Thane, Nara/Tasi, Safiya/Angelo and of course the most valid, Eironn/Raine. 
> 
> Anyway, this is Vurk/Brutus, and I have no explanation for this drabble

Vurk always found the main camp of the Maulers strange. A mixed bag of all the different factions and races gathered together and Vurk was reminded that for most of the tribes, strength decided a person’s worth. The best hunter, the strongest warrior, the cruelest fighter. Not so for the Durri.

He glanced around the camp for Numisu, darting around the outskirts and in between the shadows of the tents searching for Numisu. He longed, as he usually did, for the cool underground of his home--his fur was terribly unhelpful in the desert heat.

“Now, what are you up to, trickster?” a voice, or something more like a low roar, said from behind him, and in a flash, his feet were no longer on the ground. He looked at the figure that had scooped him up and froze, “Brutus? I mean--chieftain?”

“No need for formalities, Vurk,” Brutus replied. “I was looking for you.”

“Oh? You’ll make a Durri feel special,” Vurk grinned until Brutus threw him over his shoulder. He tried to squirm out of his hold, but Brutus’s arm was secure. This was  _ embarrassing _ .

At least he wasn’t being carried like a bumbling little whelp.

“Numisu needed your services, and asked me to find you.”

“Don’t you have...chieftain-y ruler things to do?” Vurk asked. Brutus gave a chuckle, and it was weird for Vurk to feel his shoulders shake with that small thing.

“Accusing me of slacking?” Brutus teased, and if Vurk was a more nervous creature, he might have apologised. As it was, he snickered. “I mean, here you are, running a fetch quest.”

“Numisu wouldn’t have asked such a thing of me if he didn’t have a reason,” Brutus responded. “I trust his decisions. And I have someone taking care of my responsibilities for when I go to the frontline.”

Oh, right. Brutus’s heir, a strong but  _ definitely _ annoying creature named Khasos. He stole Vurk’s whole shtick. Small, fluffy ears, red scarf? (Vurk had actually, at one point, completely entirely accidentally turned Khasos’s scarf to green, but Numisu had made him dye it back. The killjoy.)

Brutus’s free arm reached out to push aside a tent flap, and he stepped inside. While a small bedroll surrounded by by a few crystals and a totem marked off Numisu’s space, the majority of the tent was strewn about with Saveas’s and Vurk’s messes--belts, clothes, and bones from meals long since devoured littered the ground.

Brutus let Vurk scramble out from his hold, then, and had the good grace not to laugh when the Durri fell flat on his snout.

“Not a word,” Vurk grumbled as he held his nose. Brutus smiled, “Of course.”

The tent opened, and Numisu appeared, “Oh, you’re already here? Thank you for finding him, Brutus.”

“Of course, wise one. Do you still require me?”

Numisu hummed in thought, “No, you can go. You might want to find your heir before he decides to fight one of the centaurs.”

Brutus blinked, then hurried out of the tent. Vurk glanced at Numisu, “How did you know that?”

“I didn’t, actually. But I did see a few of the bears and the centaurs fighting, and if they brought it up to Khasos...well, he’s young yet and impulsive, and he doesn’t take kindly to the centaurs considering their history with the bears.”

While that hadn’t been his first time meeting Brutus, that  _ had _ been Vurk’s first real conversation with the Mauler chieftain and to say that it didn’t bother Vurk that Brutus’s impression of him was likely that of a clumsy nestling would have been a lie. So he told himself that he would definitely demonstrate his full potential against the Hypogeans (not to be confused with showing off because that would imply he was putting extra effort into looking good. Which, while he might have been putting extra effort into looking good, was  _ totally _ different from what he was doing. Which was doing his best, not showing off).

He fought hard, using distance to his advantage and being more conscientious of his target than the rest of his enemies. He wasn’t even aware of a Hypogean behind him (and how had he gotten there) until he felt something in his leg.

He froze, and glanced down, seeing much more muscle than should be visible; whatever the Hypogean was, it was distracted by his pain and his weak attempt to aim his crossbow and shrieked when a figure slashed it clean in half.

Brutus stood before him, gaze harsh and wild in the heat of war, blood matting his mane, and a growl in his voice.

“ _ Don’t _ be careless.”

Numisu appeared, then, setting up a totem before tending to Vurk’s leg, “Go back to the fight, Brutus. I will protect us.”

Brutus nodded and was off. Numisu was quiet as he worked, his totems holding strong. Whenever an enemy did stray too close, Vurk would get a bolt off or Numisu would use a burst of magic to hold them at bay. When he had done enough that Vurk could move and not bleed out, Numisu stood, “Retreat for now. I’ve others to tend to.”

“Nu--”

“We’ll be talking later,” Numisu said curtly. “Go.”

The battle was over shortly thereafter, and the camp slowly filled with the survivors, wandering off in groups to their tents to recoup. The healthiest would go hunting shortly to feed the army, and Vurk went to join them, but Numisu entered his tent then.

“ _ What _ was that?” Numisu snarled, uncharacteristically angry. “What in Esperia could have had you so distracted? You could have  _ died _ if Brutus hadn’t noticed that harpy sneak up on you, if I hadn’t been called to your side. You’re better than this, cleverer than this, Vurk.”

“I...how is it  _ my  _ fault if she snuck--”

“People don’t sneak up on you, Vurk, not in battle,” Numisu shot back. “When you’re comfortable? When you’re in camp? When you think you’ve won? Yes, you get cocky. But in the middle of a battle, you have to be more aware! You  _ are _ more aware, usually.”

“What do you want me to say?” Vurk crossed his arms. “‘Oh, yes, I’ll just develop eyes on the back of my head for next time’?”

“I  _ want _ you to not die in battle, Vurk. I’d rather not have to bury my friends, at least not at this moment. You were lucky this time that Brutus has taken an interest in you, but--”

“What do you mean, he’s taken an interest?”

Numisu paused. Then he put his face (or his mask, rather?) into his hands.

“Of course. That’s it, isn’t it? You wanted Brutus to notice you?”

Vurk glanced away, and Numisu breathed out, “I cannot  _ believe _ that you risked your  _ life _ for a shallow  _ crush _ .”

“It’s not a--”

“Do you think me foolish, Vurk? It explains a great deal of your actions for the past few weeks, in all honesty,” Numisu slid his mask off to rub a hand across his face. “Between you and Saveas, I have to wonder which of you will give me more grey hairs.”

“So you’re, uh. Not mad, anymore?”

“Mad?” Numisu asked. “No, I was never mad. Furious beyond belief, certainly. Concerned. But mad would be an understatement.”

Vurk gave a nervous little chuckle, “Okay, that’s...fair.”

“You should try to talk to Brutus before the hunting party returns.”

“Like, right now? I mean...okay. I’ll go,” Vurk mumbled. “If I don’t return, blame--”

“Your immuteable mouth?”

“I was going to say Brutus’s teeth but that works too.”

Vurk slid out of the tent, glancing about the camp. Groups of Maulers were gathered around, quiet and tired. Some were grooming themselves or others, others were sleeping, and the rumble of purrs settled over the camp. Vurk didn’t see Brutus among the groups, and he peered into the chieftain’s tent. A flash of golden mane, and Vurk found himself held in two firm, furry arms.

“Brutus?” he asked, half-surprised and half-concerned. He ran a hand through Brutus’s hair, his claws catching on tangles and knots. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them?”

“Numisu told me to wait,” Brutus responded. “So I did.”

“Are you...okay?”

“You were  _ hurt _ and then I didn’t see you again.”

Vurk continued to run his hand through Brutus’s mane, starting to comb out the kinks, “Numisu made me retreat. Because I wasn’t focused enough.”

Brutus rubbed his cheek against Vurk’s instead of responding, and Vurk couldn’t help asking, “Are you...scent-marking me?”

Brutus paused, and Vurk hurried to continue, half-flustered, “It’s okay if you are, I mean, any Mauler would be lucky to, uh, capture your attentions-- is that the polite way to put it? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Good,” Brutus said, a bit of a growl creeping into his voice, and his arms tightened around Vurk. The Durri patted his arms, “Hey, let me breathe a little, Brutus. Let me take care of you.”

Brutus was slow to react, but his arms loosened. Vurk gave a small chirrup, happy to continue grooming Brutus. The Durri didn’t have the same after-battle procedures that most Maulers did; the Durri’s battles would likely not be called as much by their surface brethren, considering that most conflicts involved little to no close-range combat. There wasn’t the same adrenaline or injuries that one gained from being in the midst of a battle and because of it, the Durri didn’t tend to groom each other unless they were direct family and that was mostly done during periods of peace. Despite that, Vurk quickly got used to and actually enjoyed grooming, enjoyed the contentment that came from gathering with friends and knowing that those who you cared for and those who cared for you were alive.

Before long, the low rumble of Brutus’s purr started to fill the tent, and it was quickly joined by Vurk’s own small cut-off purrs and chirps. It was something Skreg and Saveas would always tease him for, but usually by the time he was content enough to  _ make _ his strange little purr, he didn’t care so much.

By the time the hunting party returned, Vurk and Brutus had since dozed off. The latter stirred at the noise as the scent of food woke the camp. Vurk was curled in his arms, still giving out that purr that would cut itself off before restarting. It was nothing like the constant rumble that most of the Maulers gave, and Brutus had to wonder if it was a Vurk thing or a Durri thing.

He was reluctant to do so, but he gently shook Vurk awake, “The hunters have returned.”

Vurk stirred, nuzzling lazily against Brutus. A figure peered into the tent--Numisu. His mask covered his expression as he spoke, “I came to make sure you both were awake. You both smell very obviously like each other, although I’m sure you already noted that.”

Vurk straightened at that, and Numisu wasn’t wrong--the pair of them couldn’t have smelled more obvious. Numisu waved his hand, “I’m sure no one will read into it much, considering it was after a battle. Just be careful in the future, unless you wish for others to be aware of how close you are with a Durri. The other chieftains will talk.”

“You’re...right, wise one,” Brutus replied with a nod.

“That said, I do wish you both happiness,” Numisu said. “And if you do hurt my friend, my patience does have its limits. You would be hard to replace, but not impossible, Brutus.”

With that, Numisu left the tent, and Vurk blinked.

“Did Numisu actually threaten you? Holy  _ Dura _ .”

“I suppose I’ll just have to do my best to keep you happy and safe,” Brutus responded, holding Vurk tighter. “Which was my plan anyway.”


	3. Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being Brutus's heir leaves Khasos with certain responsibilities as mediator.

In-fighting wasn’t a rare occurrence amongst the Maulers. Generations of rivalries, insults, and general malice was bound to come to a violent head when the various tribes Brutus had attracted were constantly near each other. Generally accepted notions were that the cave dwellers were sneaky and underhanded, many of the smaller surface dwellers were scavengers or little more than slave class, and that any Mauler without a tribe was likely a traitor in exile and should not be trusted. And while Brutus’s efforts, as well as those of the various Maulers who had proved themselves to be much greater than their species or size would portray, did result in a more merit-based than might-based society, at least in the war camps, it was inevitable that issues would crop up.

Brutus often encouraged Khasos to make decisions for the camp and solve these disputes, always questioning Khasos’s thought process and offering critique where necessary. And he was, overall, proud. Khasos’s earliest answers were impulsive, rash—if an enemy attacked, you attacked back. If two Maulers were fighting, let their merits determine who was right, regardless of the damage it could cause or the loss of morale. Now, though, he thought through his decisions. Would an attack result in an empty “victory” or a loss? Would a brawl help settle the restless spirits of the army or would it just result in bitter discontent and injuries?

So Brutus wasn’t worried when one of the Durri approached the pair as they were sparring, talking about a fight breaking out on the other side of the camp. Brutus glanced at Khasos, “Can I trust you to handle this?”

Khasos nodded without a moment’s hesitation, sheathing his axes on his belt, “It won’t be a problem. Where are they?”

The Durri gave a quick nod before scampering in the direction of the fight. Clearly a fidget-y sort. Khasos followed to the site of the disruption, finding there a small group of centaurs fighting with a couple of bears.

The rivalry between the two tribes was one that was well-known and usually the tribes did their best to ignore the other’s existence, and Khasos glared as he approached. He couldn’t help it, not with the overconfident sneers of most of the centaurs’ faces, reminding him of another Mauler, cocky and smug until his final breath.

His fingers twitched for his axes, but he had to be impartial. Even to  _ scum _ . He opened his maw to disrupt the fighters before the drawn weapons found themselves being put to use, but suddenly one of the centaurs reared up onto his hind legs, preparing to strike.

Khasos gave a snarl, making both parties pause. Most of the fighters lowered their weapons—Khasos, despite his size, commanded a certain amount of respect, both from his power and his position.

“You all know that in-fighting is discouraged. Who instigated this?”

“ _ Some _ Maulers need to watch their tongues,” one of the centaurs answered. One of the bears snorted, “Other Maulers need to watch their  _ backs _ .”

“Cocky, aren’t you?” a centaur spoke up. “At least we never had to gain power by terrorising and taunting travellers.”

“Oh, no, you just had to kidnap cubs and raise them to fight each—”

“Both of you!” Khasos shouted, but even as he stepped between the two parties, the back and forth didn’t seize. Insults and provocations flew back and forth, filling with more and more vitriol.  


“You looked much better with a muzzle!” one of the centaurs taunted and Khasos snapped. Hardly even aware of it himself, he pulled out his axes and snarled at the centaurs. What followed was chaos, the centaurs hurrying to respond to the unforeseen threat. The bears quickly joined the attack, and the crowd was divided into those who didn’t want to get involved and those who wanted to fight. Khasos found himself one axe down at one point, lost in the scuffle, and took up using what was around as a weapon. When one of the centaurs, one he recognised from the original argument, fell, he quickly took advantage of the moment of weakness, climbing on top of the downed opponent and using his scarf to restrain the centaur’s arms. He had his axe aimed at the other’s neck.

“Call off the scum you call friends, or I’ll put an end to your miserable, pathetic life,” Khasos hissed. Before the centaur could speak, though, the surroundings suddenly went quiet, and before Khasos could even process that, he felt himself being grabbed by the back of his coat.

A deep roar, then, echoed through the camp. Brutus. Khasos felt his ears folding back—he wasn’t proud enough to not acknowledge a much more capable predator. To be fair, though, even Maulers who hadn’t been involved in the skirmish found themselves cowed by the roar.

“All of you who were a part of the fight, you  _ will _ come to my tent at sunset to face punishment. If you do not, I will hunt you down myself and make you wish Annih himself captured you. And  _ you _ ,” Brutus turned his attention to the Mauler that he currently had hanging a decent way above the ground. “I sent you resolve this fight. Not to join in, not to finish it, and  _ not _ to kill our allies.”

“But—”

A snarl shut Khasos up, and Brutus continued, “I’m disappointed in you, Khasos. You’ll be at my tent at sunset with the rest of them and you’ll see how your excuses fare then.”

He tossed Khasos to the ground and turned to storm off. Silence held over the camp. Brutus was not a temperamental sort, so although the camp had seen his anger before, it always was a sign of a serious infraction. After a few moments, Maulers who hadn’t been fighting started to disperse, and those that  _ had _ were quiet as they gathered their equipment and slowly slunk off to lick their wounds and regain their pride. Khasos kept his head down as he gathered his axes, shame weighing heavy on his small frame. His scarf must have been taken by the centaur he had used it against, because he couldn’t find it.

He found himself curling up in the outskirts of the camp, staring into the expanse of the desert and sky. A voice spoke up from behind him, “I believe you forgot something.”

Khasos turned slowly. A bear was approaching him, holding red fabric. His scarf. He stood, reaching for it.

“I’m Warek,” the bear spoke. “Sidel and Gisko spoke of how you fought alongside them when the centaurs and them were arguing.”

“Khasos,” Khasos responded, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “I just despised their attitudes is all.”

“Still,” Warek said. “I appreciate it. You got in trouble for them.”

“You’re welcome, then, I suppose.”

After a pause, Khasos added, “Thank you for bringing back my scarf.”

“Of course,” Warek replied, sitting down beside Khasos. Khasos paused, then looked over at Warek, “Wait. You’re Warek?  _ The _ Warek who led the revolution?”

Warek laughed, “I don’t know if I should be flattered that you know me or offended that you didn’t put it together sooner.”

Khasos huffed, “I was about to admire you, but now I’m wondering why I would. Teasing is beneath you.”

“I think you’ll find, little one, that teasing is at the very same level as me.”

“I’m not small!”

“No, but you’re young yet. You can’t have lived for much longer than twenty years.”

“That just means I have many more years than you left to fight.”

Warek gave another laugh, “I suppose that’s true. You’re eager for war, aren’t you?”

“I’m not bloodthirsty,” Khasos protested. “Just…I like to prove those who underestimate me wrong.”

“Well, you can have fun proving that to Brutus. Sunset soon arrives.”

Khasos scrambled to his feet, “Curses, you’re right. I’ll leave now; I hope to meet you later.”

“I hope the same,” Warek smiled after the Mauler, turning his attention to the sky when Khasos had disappeared into the mass of tents. He watched the darkening sky until stars overtook the expanse before he finally stood and returned to his tent.


	4. Time Zones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seer of Origins cares not for those who intend to wreak havoc on his timelines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evia is an OC but she's not super important but I'm crying because she was meant to see the history of all the world and then Orthros came out like...uhm, excuse me?

Orthros had long since removed himself from the world of mortals; few knew the stories of the Seer of Origins and fewer still could recall his name. He cared not, he had more important things to deal with than the trivial, transient lives of mortals—even the Graveborn would rise and fall in the time it would take for the Seer to take any modicum of interest in their lives.

No, his focus was not on the mortals. He focused instead on the passage of time, a stubborn yet easily disturbed mistress, affected by every breath, word, and action.

Sentience, truly, was one of Orthros’s largest peeves; it led to people creating and annihilating thousands of futures in their short time living, and made observing timelines a tangled mess of causes and effects. But although many had tried to make their effects on time much larger and more intentional,  _ daring _ to touch Orthros’s domain, none had succeeded…until recently.

Maybe not ‘recently’ by human terms, but Orthros became more and more aware of timelines changing, creatures that had existed and were existing suddenly disappearing and those which had never been conceived suddenly being born.

“Master Orthros,” a small, girlish voice spoke. He turned to face Evia--an apprentice, of sorts. She held up her book, an ever-changing tome that depicted the All-History. “He’s changed things again.”

_ I’ll search the timelines for him once more _ , Orthros responded. Evia nodded, “Actually, sir, he’s revealed himself.”

Orthros paused,  _ Has he, now? The creature that has dared to treat time like a toy now shows himself without fear? He’s a fool _ .

“Should I…join the heroes and capture him for you?” Evia offered, but her voice was hesitant—she was much more comfortable as an observer. Orthros shook his head,  _ Oh, no. I suppose it was about time for me to join the battle against the Hypogeans once more. Maintain the timelines in my absence. I’m trusting you with this. _

“Of course, sir!” Evia straightened, holding her book tighter. She was young yet for a Celestial, but she was determined and energetic. She would do well.

_ So, you’re the one _ .

Zolrath stared around the void. None could enter—none could remove themselves so completely from time as he.

_ You think yourself so powerful? You’re naïve and yet so proud. _

Zolrath’s flames flickered, “Who speaks?”

_ I do. _

“And you?”

_ I am known by many names. The Oracle’s Vision. The Bearer of Time. The Seer of Origins. All of these and more. _

Zolrath recalled those names and still others sprang to mind. All of them referred to…

“Orthros.”

_ Foolish, but not stupid. _

The Celestial revealed himself.  _ This place is disgusting. _

Zolrath flared, glancing around his void. He  _ liked  _ it; he had put a great deal of energy into creating it and fleshing it out. The dismissive disgust was aggravating.

“My  _ apologies _ that it’s not a mimicry of the pathetically dull home of the Celestials.”

_ You know nothing _ , Orthros responded absently.  _ Mortals have created lovelier structures than this. Are you actually proud? _

“Mortals could not even dream to accomplish what I have. And if I recall, I never desired for your presence.”

Orthros moved closer.  _ Oh, but you did invite me, did you not? By invading my domain? Daring to dart about time? Acting is if it’s but a suggestion? _

Zolrath flicked his tail before curling around his hourglass protectively, “I’ve no regrets; time means little to one such as I.”

_ Is this your little toy? _ Orthros’s attention shifted down and his larger arm reached around Zolrath. Zolrath slithered away, half tempted to abandon his void to the time being’s fancies. “Keep your hands away. Filth.”

Orthros simply hummed, staring at the hourglass.  _ Interesting design. It...looks not like Ansiel’s craftsmanship, but...perhaps an attempt at a mimicry? _

“Excuse me?” Zolrath growled, curling further around his hourglass. “Are you implying any amount of shoddy workmanship?”

_ Actually, no. It’s definitely a skillful attempt,  _ Orthros hummed.  _ Is it the source of your powers, or merely a conduit-- _

“It’s  _ mine _ \--”

_ If you continue to interfere with realms beyond your understanding, hellspawn, you’ll find that it is no longer ‘yours’. _

“Orthros,” Zolrath’s voice was low, warning. Orthros ignored it, or otherwise didn’t notice it to begin with.  _ That was all I came to say. I will find you if you don’t cease your meddling _ .

“Make me,” he snarled. It probably wasn’t wise to taunt the time being but at the same time he wasn’t just going to let the creature break into his home, threaten him, and leave without so much as a scratch. Orthros paused, and for a second, Zolrath delighted stunning the Celestial. But then Orthros cocked his head, and in the blink of an eye--Orthros was right in front of him, his glowing eyes staring right into Zolrath’s.

_ You really are foolish. You think I couldn’t end you? Do you think you’re any more than a fly buzzing around? You’re an annoyance, but it would be an actual waste of my time to hunt you down to destroy you. _

“Then what was this?” Zolrath returned. “If I’m such a bother, why visit?”

_ It gets dull, I’ll admit. _

“Then I’m  _ quite _ glad I could be your entertainment for the evening.”

Orthros gave a sound that Zolrath was unwilling to label as a laugh.  _ You’re interesting for a creature of the Dark One. Maybe you’re not a fly. A butterfly? Fragile, but...fascinating. _

With a quick movement, Orthros took advantage of Zolrath’s distraction; one of his outer arms snatched the hourglass. He took it carefully in his hands, examining the device as his other arms kept Zolrath at bay.

“Give that back, you--you fiend! Deplorable wretch, pathetic--”

_ Oh, hush, I’ll return it this time. But allow me to indulge a little curiosity? _

“Absolutely  _ not--” _

_ Rather unfortunate for you that I wasn’t truly asking--stop  _ slithering!

Zolrath had managed to snake his way past the bulkier of Orthros’s arms and reached out to take his hourglass back. As soon as he laid his hands on the hourglass, though, it was like a shock overtook him, and his snatched his hands back, watching as Orthros likewise flinched away. The hourglass drifted from between their arm, floating aimlessly in the void as the two creatures of time stared at each other, twin expressions of surprise in their eyes.

“Did you--”

_ I did nothing. What did  _ you _ do? _

“Nothing…” Zolrath’s voice trailed off, and his mind was absent. What had caused that...spark? A mix of their essences tinting the hourglass? His tail, so used to curling protectively over his hourglass, found itself slowly twining around Orthros’s slim wrist. Orthros made a small noise, equal parts curious and unnerved, and Zolrath started. He threw himself away from the Celestial with force, hurrying to reclaim his hourglass.

“Away with you.”

_ I leave on my terms, make no mistake. I...I shall be back if you keep playing with time, understand that. _

“I’m not scared of you, understand  _ that _ ,” Zolrath responded, but his comeback was weak, his flames flickering, and he was both relieved and disappointed when the Celestial disappeared from the void.


End file.
